


Ode to a Nightingale

by deathtrapclad



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Mentor/Protégé, Not in a Weird Way - Freeform, Slow Burn, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23157385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtrapclad/pseuds/deathtrapclad
Summary: A slow-burn, fluffy, yet still angsty take on the Dovahkiin's relationship with Brynjolf! I wanted to write a fic I would love to read so here she is. Essentially, this will be not a retelling but a rephrasing of the Thieves Guild questline. The very much accomplished Dragonborn finds Brynjolf in the market place and decides to help him complete his 'errand.' He then offers her a spot in the guild, and out of boredom, she accepts. They soon become very close as Brynjolf begins to mentor her and help her hone her stealth abilities.
Relationships: Brynjolf/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Of Beechen Green, and Shadows Numberless

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to all the readers! Thank you for selecting fic :) The title is based off of a John Keats poem and every chapter title is a line from it. I thought it to be very fitting. Please, please let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions or ideas I'd be happy to consider including them :) This is my very first fic on Ao3 so I'm very excited to see what happens!! Character dialogue will be altered slightly as I obviously don't want this to just be a retelling of the Guild questline. Right now I have 20 chapters planned but that number is bound to change. As I'm off school for about five weeks, updates will be frequent. Also, The description of the LDB will be intentionally lacking as I wanted anyone reading this to be able to their LDB in our protagonist's shoes.Thank you again for reading!

It was the height of Mid-Year and the day was bright. Too bright- well at least for her. And hot! The Stahlrim armor she wore was unbearable, she had to get something lighter. The Dragonborn, Saviour of Nirn, Protector of Solitude, and champion of almost every deity you could dream of dragged herself through the disordered domesticity that was the city of Riften. As previously noted, the sun was shining atypically bright- even for summer. The Dragonborn pulled a leather hood over her head wishing that it was blocking out rain rather than sun. Though her eyes were shadowed, she had a clear view of the city center and began to mark every exit, hiding place, heavy coinpurse, and city guard in her periphery. It was simply a precaution she’d elected to take, which had become handy a substantial number of times within the last couple years. 

The market place was uncharacteristically bustling. Each merchant shouting prices and sales when they weren’t in the middle of a transaction. It gave her a rush of happiness to see routine life returned to Skyrim. The reanimation of dragons had caused an overt worry among the citizens, similar to when a new plague is rumored about. People tend to close themselves off, distrusting of neighbours they’d known their whole life; for a while there was an abundance of empty shops and streets, with not a smile in sight. But life had finally returned. It was long overdue. 

Returning to her analysis of Riften, one specific satchel caught The Dragonborn’s eye. But she knew immediately to whom it belonged. When she dared to steal a glance at him, piercing emeralds were already on her. Brynjolf. Of course she knew him, as it was to him she went to seek answers about Esbern’s location. However when he asked if she’d do a favour for him, and before even learning what this favour happened to entail, she decided that she’d rather learn of his whereabouts from someone else. She hadn’t approached him since then.

But the problem was that the Dragonborn was dangerously bored. It seemed that she always had something occupying her mind- or at least her journal. Recently, though, the number of life-threatening events had decreased. Perhaps it was her own doing, as she _had_ kept herself busy by saving seemingly _everyone_ from _everything_. Maybe it was a power outside her own comprehension. No matter how it came about, point blank, she was bored. Which meant she was vulnerable to bad decision-making. Options bounced around in her mind: Listen to the scheme- worst case scenario, you say no again. She weighed the outcomes back and forth, biting her lips as she thought. Fine, she decided. She’d listen to what he’d have to say. What’s the worst that could happen? 

So the Dragonborn started towards Brynjolf, and in her typical fashion, maintained unflinching eye contact with him, walking with the conviction of a thousand jarls. She was confrontational by nature- well, anyone who’s going to defeat the son of a Divine must have a little backbone. Before she knew it, but not before she was ready, she reached his kiosk.

“Mara preserve me,” Brynjolf began, his confidence rising to meet her’s. “You finally decided to come back and listen to me.” Though it was structured like a question he certainly didn’t phrase it like one. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she reminded him. “I just thought, since I have nothing else on my plate, I might as well listen to what an old man has to say.” He snickered at that, but said nothing. The Dragonborn leaned against a wooden frame on his stall,

“Okay, Brynjolf. Let’s hear it. What have you got for me?” Brynjolf’s grin reached his ears as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.

“I have a bit of an errand to run, but I need an extra pair of hands. And in my line of work, extra hands are well-paid.”

The Dragonborn listened intently to each word, continuing to bite the inside of her mouth while he detailed what he needed her to do. She stared at the ground so she could focus solely on his voice. He finished explaining, but her eyes remained fixed on the stone beneath her. Not a word left her mouth for minutes which, to Brynjolf, felt like hours.

“So?” Brynjolf scanned her features, searching for an answer, as her gaze returned to his face. Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it all.

“You want me to steal Madesi’s ring,” she gestured her head to the Saxlheel jeweler, “and plant it on Brand-Shei?”

“Precisely.”

“And in return?”

“A foot in the door of the Thieves Guild.” 

The Dragonborn took a step back at his response, her whole face now screwed up in thought; again, she stared at the ground. She knew Brynjolf’s allegiance lied with them, as she had noticed the shadowmark on the barrel by his market stall upon their first meeting, but she certainly didn’t know he intended on _recruiting_ her. Was this supposed to be like an audition? She continued to keep silent for a long while, but Brynjolf didn’t push for her answer, no matter how far on the edge of his seat he was. _What a powerful ally she’d be_ , he thought. _Her influence stretches as far as the provincial borders- perhaps further._ He could tell that from the first moment she’d approached him in the Bee and Barb, just by the way she approached him asking about the old man. He shifted in the fine blue robes he was wearing.

The Dragonborn’s head snapped up rapidly. She stared him down, her eyes shifting from his hooded eyes, to the slight crows feet on either side, the stubble decorating his cheeks, the thin, pink scar marking the left one, and the way his brows furrowed as he tried to predict her response.

“Fine. It’s a deal,” The Dragonborn began to turn towards the Argonian she had previously motioned to. “But I want a lighter pair of armor after this.” Brynjolf just smiled and lifted the potion bottle in his hand.

* * *

  
  


The Dragonborn stepped through the door of The Ragged Flagon from the Ratway which, luckily, offered a much cooler climate than outside. As soon as she spotted what she assumed was a few members of the guild crowded around Brynjolf at the small bar, her stomach flipped with excitement. 

Oh, to be part of a new guild! Though she refused to let it on, she absolutely adored meeting new people. Sometimes, she thought it might be because she was just hungry to _know_ more, but she just chalked it up to being an outgoing, though sometimes outwardly cold, person. The Dragonborn continued walking in the direction of the bar, trying to make her steps look unhurried. As she neared, she could hear the voices of the guild members talking about someone- presumably her- but the blood rushing to her head muddled the noise. She only caught the tail end,

“I’m telling you. This one’s different.” 

Brynjolf turned towards the Dragonborn when she began to draw near. He was now clad in a black hide uniform with two baldrics, containing pouches and lockpicks, that crossed horizontally over his right and left shoulders. A little silver sigil made up of a key and dagger embellished the left pauldron while four stars laid on the right. Two other members, she noted, adorned an identical set. Brynjolf greeted her with a warm smile as his eyes laid upon her.

“Let’s sit.” He walked around her to a little table that seated two and proceeded to pull out one chair and take the one opposite to it. She thanked him quietly and took her seat.

“So, you’ve officially decided I’m worth your time, oh mighty Dragonborn,” He began playfully, leaning forward in his seat. 

“Well I thought since I had nothing better to do… Why not?”

“Good to know we’re so high up on your list of priorities!”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t place you above Alduin, The literal _World-Eater_ ,” The Dragonborn quipped back. Brynjolf chuckled, his eyes sparkling, she noticed, even in the dim light.

“I hope you found your way here easy.”

“Easy enough,” she replied, dropping the ludic tone. “The lowlife proved no trouble, but this,” she gestured to The Flagon, “is... _not_ what I was expecting, to put it politely.” Brynjolf sucked on his teeth. 

“Ehm, well. We aren’t doing spectacularly at the moment.”

“ _At the moment_? Word on the street is that your outfit’s been doing poorly for a long while.” Brynjolf didn’t flinch at her confrontational tone, but he didn’t scold her either. He just sighed.

“Yes,” he hesitated, “that’s true.” Another pause. “But it’s no use having the same old codgers doing _and botching_ jobs. We need young blood. We need someone like you, whose head is already in the game. I mean, the way you handled Brand-Shei, I- I didn’t even see you for a second.” His eyes wandered her face for a split second, perhaps waiting for a response that wasn’t going to come. He snapped back to attention.

“So!” he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table. “Let’s get started. I have a few deadbeats we need taken care of.”

“Deadbeats? What’d they do?”

* * *

  
  


The Dragonborn dropped three heavy coin purses on the table that Brynjolf was currently perched at. He must have been sleeping because he was quite startled not only by the loud noise the satchels made, but also by the large purple mark beginning to develop on the Dragonborn’s left cheek.

“Lass, are you-”  
  


“Haelga can throw a mean swing, apparently,” she cut him off. Brynjolf gave a hardy laugh, wiping a faux tear from his eye. She just stood there deadpan. When he finished chuckling, he took the leather pouches and tossed the Dragonborn a couple potions for her trouble. 

“You’ll find these useful, I’m sure,” he told her, amusement still evident in his voice. Brynjolf stood and she was suddenly very aware of his height. It must have shown on her face because he gave her a very puzzled look and asking,

“What?”

“I didn’t notice how tall you were, that’s all,” she replied flatly.

“Maybe you’re just short,” Brynjolf began walking and pretended to ignore her scowl. “Follow me.” The Dragonborn quickly obeyed, trying to keep up with his long strides.

“Since you’ve proven your worth, it’s time you formally met the guildmaster.” He led her to a tiny pantry where a cabinet stood. He opened the door to reveal nothing inside but a tiny switch. He flicked it and the back panel slid to the side, disclosing a brand new passage. _Identical to the wardrobe in the ‘attic room’ of the Sleeping Giant Inn_ , she thought. They stepped through. 

“Mercer’s a tough employer,” Brynjolf sighed, turning left and opening a new door. “But if you do your job, and you do it right, he’ll have no qualms with you.” 

“Thank you, Brynjolf I-” The Dragonborn drew in a sharp breath, taking in the sight of the Cistern. A huge man-made cavern stretched before her. She gaped the enormous ceilings, and the peculiar shape of the center of the room. _Almost like a pedestal_ , she thought. And at the center of this quasi-pedestal waiting for them was Mercer Frey, the guildmaster. The Dragonborn turned to Brynjolf, speechless. How could all of this fit under a city?

“Welcome to the Thieves Guild, lass.”


	2. Where Youth Grows Pale and Spectre-thin

The Dragonborn collapsed onto her bed, sweaty, weak, and exhausted. It was an ‘endurance day’ which meant five solid hours of climbing, running, and fighting. She hadn’t expected to begin an apprenticeship with the Thieves Guild, but evidently that was what had happened. The rule was that the recruiter takes in the recruit, meaning that Brynjolf had her doing laps around Lake Honrich every other day. Occasionally, since it was summertime, he’d let her swim instead, but it never meant she was less sore the next day. 

But she was glad to get out of the cistern. The Dragonborn became aware very quickly that the cistern was lacking life, to put it lightly. The boys and Sapphire looked sick and tired, no matter what time of day it was. Not one of them would get through the week without making a mess of at least one job. Brynjolf had only allowed her to take local jobs in Riften assigned by Delvin or Vex. He wouldn’t even let her go to Windhelm yet. Delvin tried to convince her there was a curse on the guild which wouldn't be shocking considering their only job is to take things from people and places. But Vex just chalked it up to being plain bad luck.

Thoughts about the Guild and gold began to lull the Dragonborn off into a deep slumber.

  
  


She awoke to the sound of the cistern becoming busy. Fires were being lit, food was cooking, and leather boots were shuffling along the hard cobblestone floors. Before the Dragonborn even had a chance to fully open her eyes, a leather clad figure stood at the end of her bed asking her about being ready to go because apparently she was late for something.

“Hmm?” she asked the shadowy figure.

“I said are you ready to leave? We’re late for training,” Brynjolf scolds gently.

“What-” She pauses to sit up in bed, “what time is it?”

“Half past eight.”

“Akatosh preserve me!” The Dragonborn shot out of bed faster than Brynjolf could register. Luckily, depending on how you look at it, she was still dressed from the day before. They began to walk together to the ladder leading out of the cistern.

“What are we supposed to do today?”

“Sword fighting.”

“Gods Bryn, we’ve been over this a million times,” she said, climbing the ladder behind him. “I don’t need to learn how to sword fight. I’ve killed the son of a god.” The Dragonborn hated when Brynjolf wasted her time with sword fights. As they reached the small cemetery he spun around to face her. Based on his expression, she deduced that today was the wrong day to put up a fight. 

“Fine! Forget I said anything,” the Dragonborn quickly spoke before he could tell her off. They hopped the city wall and began to the little clearing where they usually practised. The quiet between them felt unusually pregnant and awkward.

“I’m not teaching you how to fight,” Brynjolf broke silence. “I’m just making sure you don’t get rusty. 

“I’m not ever going to get rusty. I regularly put myself in too much danger for that,” she huffed. The clearing was a lovely little spot Brynjolf had taken her to the morning after her membership began. She remembered so distinctly how he’d asked her to show him how she fought. Seconds later, he landed in the dirt. Shocked wrote itself all over his face, but so did reverence. 

The day was clear and crisp, a nice change from the streak of thunderstorms they had so recently. The Dragonborn noticed the first couple leaves that had fallen to the ground seemingly announcing the coming of Autumn in the next month. It had been a couple months since she’d met Mercer Frey and he’d given her a curt acknowledgement of her guild membership, but they had seldom spoken since then. Truth be told, she thought that guild life would be more exciting. She’d been running jobs back and forth for Delvin and Vex but other than that and the training, nothing of the thrilling sort had taken place. Even in the middle of a burglary or shill job, the Dragonborn was never met with an ardor or child-like excitement from her work. She told herself it was just because she was stuck in Riften for all the assignments. Surely once she was allowed to travel it would get better. Of course it would! 

“So,” Brynjolf’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, “daggers or swords today?” 

“Swords.” No hesitation. The Dragonborn drew a simple, non-lethal elven sword and placed her left foot in front of her right, legs shoulder length apart, ready for attack. Brynjolf made the first hit bringing down a twin blade diagonal to her neck which was also his first mistake. She countered it easily letting his blade run from the tip to the hilt of her’s before bashing it causing him to fall flat on his arse. She laughed and flourished her blade readying for him to strike again. Brynjolf did just that, swiping at her feet, but once more she avoided it casually and sent a kick to his hand, sending the golden saber clattering to the ground. The Dragonborn started circling him.

“Bryn, you really need to push me harder. For Nocturnal’s sake I’m the Dragonborn! The childish way you treat me makes me feel like nothing more than a city guard,” She paused, her back facing his. “I mean, I really expected more from the Thie-” Quicker than she could register, Brynjolf spun around and kicked out the back of both her knees, sending the Dragonborn tumbling to the ground with a yelp. A laugh from deep within his chest followed. She sat up but didn’t move much more than that, scarlet staining her cheeks. The older thief came around to face her, still chuckling despite the look of pure ire that only a being with dragon blood in it’s veins could manifest.

“The most important tool in the thieves' repertoire is distraction,” He reached out a hand. “Either planned or improvised.”

“Seriously? ‘Purloined Shadows?’” she, as graciously as she could muster, took his hand and stood. 

“Books are written for a reason,” Brynjolf walked to where his protege had sent his sword and shook the dirt off of it before readying into position again. Said protege mirrored the movement. She struck first, but her mentor did not relent so easily this time. He held the grip of his blade in and overhand fashion and swiped it over his head to the left, deflecting the hit easily. Brynjolf followed this then by moving the blade from its current position to meet her belly and slashing it to the right. Given the dulled tip of the weapon, it did not injure the Dragonborn, but still allowed her to feel the force of the impact. The hit threw her off her balance causing her to stumble back and fall to her knees. The master thief still did not abate when he made a well placed kick to her abdomen sending her flying back into the dirt. He sauntered over, leaned down, and set two knees on either side of her body. Brynjolf, sword in hand, raised the blade above his head as if he was going to give a death-blow.

“Did  _ that  _ push you hard enough?” If Brynjolf didn’t know any better he would think he saw fear flash in her eyes, but he knew it was likely just shock. No response came from his apprentice as she pushed him off her. The Dragonborn smirked,

“Finally.”

  
  
  


They practised until lunch returning to the city briefly to eat and rest before heading back to the clearing. In fact, they finish sparring until well after the sunset. The Dragonborn however did not head back to the cistern like Brynjolf did. No, she was far too sweaty and reeking to be able to enter civilization. Her walk to Lake Honrich was peaceful. Cicadas chanted their summer melody and a soft breeze combed her hair. When the Dragonborn reached the lake she sought out a secluded place to bathe, which she found with ease. She stripped from her guild armor and stepped into the cool water, scrambling to submerge her whole body. Finally, she allowed her body to relax and closed her eyes. 

It was nice to belong again. To have a family again. She knew it was odd to think of them like that, but she was so starved for that kind of  _ feeling _ . 

Safety- that was the feeling. She felt safe again.

  
  


The Dragonborn pulled herself from her daydreams. Her hands were getting pruney and the water was becoming cold with the setting of the sun. She towled herself off with some linen towelettes she had brought along with her and adorned a loose cotton shirt and matching billowing pants. After lacing her boots, she headed towards the South Gate. 

When she finally reached it, she felt a hard tap on her shoulder. Spinning around, she was faced with a deadpanned Vex.

“Where have you been?”

“I was just having a ba-”

“You need to get back to the Cistern now. No- nothing happened, it’s..” Vex stared at the stone behind the Dragonborn’s head. “You just need to get back.”

Wordlessly, they split ways and The Dragonborn entered Riften and began her descent to the cistern. As always it was dimly lit but unlike always, Mercer stood at the center tiles with Brynjolf. She quickened her pace as Mercer did not look pleased.

“What’s going on?” 

“I will excuse your tardiness this time,” Mercer began. The joints on the Dragonborn tightened, she was used to being talked down to by Delphine, the Greybeards and Gods know who else, but by Akatosh how it still irked her. 

“Brynjolf’s been telling me that you’re an extremely promising student,” Brynjolf smiled gently in agreement, “Well it’s time to put that promise to the test. You’re being sent to Windhelm to do a job. Brynjolf’s going with you to observe.”

Her heart swelled in her chest.  _ Finally _ . She’d be able to backup her perceived skill with actual action! She quickly stifled her emotions, it wasn’t usually in order to let that kind of stuff rise to the surface in the presence of Mercer. 

“Yes, Guildmaster. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Brynjolf. I still think you need to train more. You’re excused.” The Dragonborn nodded curtly and turned around, beaming. She walked a few more steps that Brynjolf trailed. When they were an appropriate distance away from Mercer she spun towards her Mentor with pure elation in her eyes.

“Gods, finally!” She groaned, continuing towards the Ragged Flagon. “I can’t wait to get out of this Rat’s Nest!” Brynjolf gave a hearty chuckle.

“Well I’m glad you’re so excited to rob the Palace of Kings.” The Dragonborn stopped dead in her tracks. 

“We’re gonna what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback!!!!!! I love to hear it! This was a filler chapter but what can you do.


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